


This is the Road to Ruin (And We're Starting at the End)

by sadieb798



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Religion Changes, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catholic Steve Rogers, Coming Out, Death, Grief/Mourning, Homosexuality, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Marks, Meet After Death AU, Original Character(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Queer Character, References to Depression, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve dies in the ice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-05-31 13:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6471334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Some people won’t have a chance to meet their soulmate in this lifetime, and when that happens, God puts them in a special place for us until we die. Once we die, we go to the happiest place we’ve ever been in our lives, and there they’ll be: waiting for us.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Troubled Soul

**Author's Note:**

> So this all came about from a conversation [inheritanceofgeek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inheritanceofgeek/pseuds/inheritanceofgeek) and I had over twitter that gave me feels and the idea for a fic.
> 
> None of this would have been possible if it weren't for the help of both my wonderful beta-wife, [inheritanceofgeek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inheritanceofgeek/pseuds/inheritanceofgeek), and the lovely [venvephe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/pseuds/venvephe) for teaching me more about writing, and for literally whipping this fic into shape. You guys are the best, and I love you both.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve frowned down at his own blank, bandless wrist. “Does everyone have a Mark?” he asked, rubbing his empty wrist self-consciously.
> 
> Granny McDonald gave him a warm, reassuring smile. “That just means your soulmate hasn’t been born yet."

**CHAPTER ONE**  

 

Steve can see the smoke from a mile away.

 

He rushes ahead, shield strapped to his arm, and eyes focused forward. The soul band around his wrist scrapes underneath his red glove, making him all too aware of the adrenaline racing through his veins. He has to make sure no one is in the burning building. As he approaches the building, he slows. The roof is gone, and the walls have fallen, but the remains are still smoking. The fire burnt itself out a long time ago.

 

“Look for any survivors!” he yells out, once the Commandos get closer and Bucky’s at his back. “Search everywhere!”

 

They separate into groups and begin searching through the small town. Steve approaches a collapsed building, picking his way carefully through the blackened grass and fallen debris of plaster and brick. He can see through the building; there are no more walls left standing, and he can clearly make out a cemetery beyond the shattered remains. It dawns on Steve that this was a place of worship.

 

It’s only when Steve’s standing in the middle of the smoking and shattered remains of the church with the acrid smell of charred wood and human flesh in his nose, that the thought occurs to him: he’d never been very religious.

 

Given how much stronger and healthier he feels now, it’s easy to forget that he had been too sick to play stickball his entire childhood, much less go out to Mass regularly. Nevertheless, Catholicism had rubbed off on him like a cat shedding its fur in spring, in large part because of the Irish immigrants who populated his neighborhood and the three other Irish families living in the same tenement apartment with him and his Ma. Without their help--whether it was caring for him, _talking_ to him, praying over him when his illnesses took a turn for the worse, or sitting still at his bedside for hours as he tentatively drew them-- he’d wouldn’t even _have_ a religious upbringing. Hell, it’s _because_ of Catholicism that he’d discovered his love for art at all.

 

The first Mass he’d ever attended was the first time in months that he’d been well enough to get out of bed. Once his Ma had finished taking his temperature and found him healthy for the day, she’d thrown her hands up in the air, and with a smile on her face, loudly proclaimed it an Easter miracle. She’d then promptly bundled him up for the cold and took him to the nearest church. It was a tall, muddy red building with gray spires and three dark arched doors in the front. When he and his Ma had stepped inside, his mouth fell open--the church was enormous and he felt smaller in comparison.

 

Thinking back on it now makes Steve feel little all over again.

  
Through the charred wreckage, Steve slowly steps in the bare patches that are bereft of any pieces of crushed plaster, blackened brick, or splintered wood. He carefully lifts a fallen piece of wood out of his path, and it’s only when he has it in his hands that he catches the flash of a knob in the middle. He realizes the burnt, broken wood is actually a door. He can’t do anything except shove it aside; the blackened ash staining his red gloves as he pulls away.

 

That first church he saw as a child with his Ma had been gargantuan. Inside was all polished dark wood, with arched rafters that stretched high and held up the ceiling. Tall stained glass windows lined each wall, and the pews gleamed in the candlelight. People, of all shapes and sizes, from young to old, were dressed in the finest clothes they owned. They sat in groups, some of them chatting amiably with each other, and a few with their heads bowed in prayer.

 

Steve pauses as he comes up to a pile of rubble, a tumble of stones and chalky dust with no way around it to the far end of the church. Slowly, he lifts his leg and swings it over, using his back foot to balance on top of the precarious bricks. When he lowers his boot to the ground, a sudden loud _crunch_ shatters the silence. Alarmed, he quickly lifts his boot away. But instead of crushed bones of an animal or a person like he had been expecting, his eyes meet a shattered pane of glass. Steve's heart clenches at the sight of the cobwebbed, ashen shards on the dusty floor.

 

What had captivated Steve the most that first Mass were the windows.

 

He had still been colorblind at the time, only able to see reds and greens, often confusing yellows and blues, so he hadn’t known that when the sun hit the glass just right, bright light projected bursts of brilliant color onto the faces of the men and women gathered together. It hadn’t been the few colors he could make out that drew him to them, anyway. What had captured his attention was the compositions of the windows themselves. He was transfixed by the thick, dark lines that wove their way through each character and each pane of glass, yet instead of separating them, united them. The details amazed him the most: the delicate lines in a person’s hair, the bunched fabric in an arched knee, the smooth texture on a cup. The play of shadows and light, the reverence displayed on a person’s face, the gesturing of their hands--all of it left him awestruck.

 

He can’t help but wonder what this dusty pane of glass had once been: the Virgin Mary, Jesus, a Saint, or some religious figure Steve had never heard of? Regardless of who it might have been, seeing the shattered remnants at his feet steals Steve’s breath away, leaving him acutely aware of the sharp pain in his chest.

 

Ever since that first visit to their church in Brooklyn, Steve drew everything he saw inside there, trying hard to recreate what he had seen in those windows. When he felt good enough to go out, he would escape to the church and fill scraps of paper with studies of the saints and the rafters. Even when he wasn’t feeling his best, he and Bucky would still sneak off so Steve could sketch the inside, sometimes staying so late into the night that Steve couldn’t see the Virgin’s delicate features anymore.

 

Bucky would grouse the entire time they were there, but he never left Steve’s side even when Steve reassured him that it wouldn’t matter if he went away. By the time Steve finished his sketches, Bucky would always be impressed by the results of Steve’s labor. Steve had been young, and untrained, but after a few years of visiting the different churches in Brooklyn, and sketching each glass window, each pew and altar, he developed an eye for detail and a strong desire to accurately capture the aesthetic and layout of everything he saw.

 

His years of work paid off when he was accepted into art school, where he learned about the French impressionists, the Italian masters, not to mention discussing the rising popularity of Mexican artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, or debating which was the more impactful art movement: romanticism or cubism with some of his fellow classmates. It was from those artists that he began developing his own style. God, he had loved school. He spent hours in the library, poring over each of the art books, filling up sketchbooks with his own interpretations of famous works of art and the students who studied around him.

 

Steve stares at the landscape around him.

 

But this--

 

There’s nothing left of this church. He can’t even be sure if it had _been_ a Christian church--it might have been a temple, for all he can tell. There’s no roof above his head, or any walls left standing to box him in. There’s only small indications of what it had once been--a few blackened slabs of wood left standing, like ribs poking out of the charred earth. Black ash covered the ground, mingling with the dry brown dirt, shattered glass, and rubble where there had once been an altar.

 

Without walls to obstruct his view, Steve can clearly see the terrain of what’s left of the tiny town.

 

It’s almost like being colorblind again, back when his world dreary and bleak. When he had emerged from the pod after Project Rebirth had been successful, in between his deep lungfuls of air--something that he only did when he had an asthma attack--he was astonished by the amount of _color_ there was in the room. Even after all this time, it’s still amazing to see the incredible colors in the world. But now, standing there in the middle of the remains of a tiny town he’ll never know the _name_ of, all he can see is hues of gray and black. Above him the sky is gray with swirled smudges of black as dark as charcoal. Steve isn’t sure if the clouds are actually gray with threats of rain, or if it’s because of the fire that he and the Commandos hadn’t arrived in time to stop. The grass at his feet is burned away and covered in ash, turning it black and dull. Even the Commandos, in their camouflage clothes, match the bleak scenery in their faded and worn appearance.

 

He doesn’t dare to smell the air again to check for the telltale sign of an incoming storm, for fear of taking another wiff of charred wood, hair, _skin_ on accident. The air is heavy, but it’s not with anticipation, instead it’s with a resigned confirmation: the damage has been done.

 

It’s times like this, standing in the ruins of another town, far away from his perfect church in Brooklyn, that make Steve wish he can’t see details and colors so clearly.

 

“Cap, we gotta get going,” Bucky says, interrupting Steve’s thoughts. Bucky’s boots crunch loudly on the splintered wood as he navigates his way towards Steve.

 

“Is there anyone left?” Steve asks softly, trying not to disrupt the quiet around them.

 

“If there are, they’ve left it all behind already,” Bucky replies, confirming Steve’s suspicions.

 

Bucky had been helping the rest of the Commandos poke through the remains of the buildings, searching for any signs of life. There’s nothing left of the tiny village they were about to pass through but charred remnants of homes, a wall or two with carefully handpainted signs that gave Steve the impression that a shop had stood there once, and what was left of their place of worship.

 

Steve turns back to the shattered glass on the dusty ground, the memory of the Virgin Mary’s peaceful expression swimming through his mind at the sight. Instead of blue or green or red, the glass shards that stare up at him are all a dull and dirty gray from the dust and ash in the air.

 

“You okay?” Bucky asks quietly.

 

“This was their only comfort,” Steve said simply, gesturing at the wreckage that remained.

 

There’s _nothing_ left of the people who had lived there; nothing about their lives, or their struggles, or even who they had been. It’s all gone. It’s strange to even think that there had even _been_ something standing where he is.

 

“This was the one place they could go to for some relief from this hell--to escape from the horror that was in their lives. Now it’s gone.” Steve closes his eyes, obstructing his view of the destruction. “They have nothing now.”

 

Steve heaves a heavy sigh and lifts a gloved hand to rub the bridge of his nose.

 

A gentle hand rests on his shoulder. Steve’s eyes flick up from the ground. His best friend gives him a small humorless smile, solemnity in his blue eyes.

 

“They’ll have each other,” Bucky says simply, squeezing Steve’s shoulder tightly. “It’s enough.”

 

Steve lifts a hand, placing it on top of Bucky’s and gives it an answering squeeze. The thought is only a small consolation; they both know that it won’t be the last ruined church that they will march past that day.

 

Steve’s heart clenches painfully at the thought. His own religious upbringing had been unorthodox, but he had always felt an appreciation in the passion others had for their religion. The hatred behind the destruction made Steve’s blood boil and clench his teeth in anger. He didn’t care what they practiced: nobody’s sole form of comfort in a time of war deserved to be destroyed right in front of their very eyes.

  
The path following the front felt like an endless road of destruction, made up of shattered town after shattered town--the smoking bones of people’s lives. They were often the first to come upon the wreckage, and that meant that sometimes the task of burying the dead was left to Steve and his team. That was probably the hardest thing to do. Gabe was the better speaker out of all of them; his father had been a preacher, and no one was more capable of delivering a eulogy or prayer than Gabe. Once the graves had been dug, and the remains buried, Gabe would say a few words, and they would move on to the next broken town on their road of ruin.

* * *

Marching through the small town behind the regiment of soldiers that the Commandos had been travelling with, his own team behind him, Steve’s thoughts kept going back to Brooklyn. It’s so easy to replace the remains of these destroyed places with his own neighborhood, and imagining that it had been the church he and Bucky would go in place of what had been burned to the ground behind him. For these people, the church must have been the center of their whole world, just as Brooklyn had been his.

 

Growing up in the tenements, he was surrounded by people, and the only thing they had in common was their heritage and the hope to build a better life in America. Aside from his Ma, he’d gotten all his education on their religion from the oldest member of the McDonald family that lived with them: Grandma Elizabeth. She’d been a feisty bitty lady with gray hair who sometimes spoke Gaelic and treated him no different from her own grandchildren. Steve’s mouth still waters at the memory of her delectable kerry cake. She had fed Steve’s love of good storytelling by reading passages of the Bible and telling him stories of each saint when he was stuck in bed.

 

Steve and Bucky pass two soldiers from the regiment they’d accompanied. It isn’t long before they’ve caught up with more of the soldiers, and the various members of the Howling Commandos.

 

Steve’s eyes catch on one of the soldiers as they approach--Horowitz, Steve thinks absently. He and his companion, Edwards, are beside one of the more ruined buildings; the entire place is nothing but blackened ash and collapsed plaster, a door the only thing left standing. They’re quietly conversing--about what, Steve can’t be sure. Horowitz turns to Edwards, his shoulders beginning to shake. Steve’s ears pick up sniffles.

 

Horowitz’s shoulders are shaking, with his arm covering his face; trying to stop the flood of tears. Edwards silently moves closer to him, and Steve sees the inquiry on Edwards’ lips. Horowitz cries so hard that he’s hiccupping and can’t give much of an answer. Edwards can’t do anything but rub Horowitz’s back comfortingly, murmuring words to him that Steve resolutely isn’t going to hear.

 

Edwards lays a hand on Horowitz’s shoulder.

 

At the touch, Horowitz lifts his head up from the blackened ground and looks into his companion’s face. During their conversation, Edwards has sidled closer, and is now only a few inches away from Horowitz’s face, head bent to better look into his friend’s eyes. Edwards gives Horowitz a reassuring smile, a well of warmth in his brown eyes as he murmurs something else only Horowitz can hear.

 

Horowitz returns his smile with a small watery one of his own. Edwards lifts a hand to wipe away the track of tears from his cheek. They stare at one another for a long moment, and time seems to slow down exponentially as Steve watches them. Then the two men lean forward at the same time, and meet each other halfway with a tender kiss.

 

Steve looks away, leaving the two men to embrace each other in private.

 

After all, it would be illegal if anyone witnessed what they did.

 

Unable to help himself, though, Steve quickly glances back over at them again. Now separated from each other, the only point of contact between the two men is Edwards’ hand clutching Horowitz’s left wrist. In between Edwards’ gently stroking fingers, Steve manages to catch a glimpse of the orange soulmark on Horowitz’s wrist beneath his army-issued soul band. Steve’s going to have to make sure Horowitz and Edwards have some time alone together once they’ve passed through this town; they deserve that much.

 

He can’t help the tiny flare of jealousy that sprouts up inside of him at the sight regardless. As much as Steve wishes for someone like that for himself, that person isn’t around yet, and Steve’s been waiting a long time already for his soulmate, that a few more years hardly makes a difference.

 

Besides, Steve counts himself lucky he hasn’t found them in this hell.

 

At seven, the same age he’d been when he discovered his church, Steve’s mother had told him about soulmarks and soulmates. It had been one of those times he had a nasty bout of pneumonia and he was so cold. That was when his Ma had first told him what ended up becoming his favorite story from the Bible.

 

She’d had an early shift at the hospital in the morning and Steve could tell his Ma was exhausted, but she sat up with him anyway despite how hard he tried not to disturb her. She had laid beside him in bed, taken him up into her arms, and told him the story.

 

<I can take care of him, Sarah,> Granny McDonald reprimanded disapprovingly in Gaelic when she came to check on Steve and found him on his Ma’s lap.

 

“Go back to bed, you need the rest,” Sarah had whispered kindly. Granny McDonald frowned but decided to go make soup for him instead and hobbled away.

 

“Once upon a time,” Sarah began, and Steve tried stifling the cough building up in the back of his throat so he could listen. But his Ma was patient by nature and waited for him to get his breath back.

 

“Once upon a time,” she started again. “A long time ago, in Jerusalem, which is far, far away from here, and covered with sand and so so hot; a young woman named Joanna had been washing her clothes in the village’s well when she found a gray spot on her left wrist that hadn’t been there before. She scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, but no matter how hard she tried, the spot wouldn’t come off her skin. Then she had a vision.

 

“She was in her home, on a warm summer’s day, and there, reading at the fire, was a young woman she had known long ago. But this young woman had died when they were both young. Joanna, coming out of her vision, told others what she had seen. One man didn’t believe her, but when she touched his hand, Joanna had another vision.

 

“In the vision, the man was in a field of some distant land she did not recognize. She knew that the vision was of the life after, for this man in front of her was at least ten years younger, and there was a young woman with him in the field with wild hair the color of honey and eyes the color of the sky. When Joanna told the man of what she’d seen, he’d burst into tears. The woman in her vision, the man explained, was his wife who had died long ago. When Joanna removed her hands from his wrists, a gray spot appeared on his left wrist.

 

“Joanna travelled the country, sharing her visions with others, revealing spots on all who gathered to hear her and explained what they meant. She said that God had given everyone a Mark and that was what the spot on their wrists were. But it was a special mark--a mark that we could use to find our soulmate--”

 

“Whassa soulmate?” Steve interrupted to ask.

 

“A soulmate is a person that God made just for you,” Sarah had explained gently.

 

“They’re our equal in every way,” Granny McDonald chimed in, coming into Steve’s room with a bowl of hot soup in her hands. “They’re meant to be with you forever and ever.” She set the bowl on the table beside his bed and settled down into the rocking chair they kept by his bed to listen.

 

“Oh.” He coughed again, falling into another fit. Once he fell silent, his patient mother continued.

 

“ ‘Some people won’t have a chance to meet their soulmate in this lifetime,’ Joanna had said. ‘And when that happens, God puts them in a special place for us until we die. Once we die, we go to the happiest place we’ve ever been in our lives, and there they’ll be: waiting for us.’ Because of her visions, they called her Joanna of the Mark. And when she died, she became--”

 

“ ‘Saint Joan of Soulmates’,” Granny Elizabeth said reverently. Then she made the sign of the cross as a display of respect over the rosary Steve knew she kept around her neck.

 

“But,” Steve began, confused. “How is a gray mark going to help you find your soulmate?”

 

“The marks aren’t gray, sweetheart,” his Ma replied with a kind smile. “They come in all sorts of colors--beautiful, beautiful colors--until they turn gray.”

 

“Why do they turn gray?” Steve asked, scrunching his nose in confusion.

 

A sad sort of silence hung over Steve’s bedroom before Granny McDonald spoke.

 

<A gray mark,> she whispered, switching back to Gaelic as she took both Steve and his Ma’s hands in hers, <means that their soulmate has died.>

 

“Oh,” Steve said. He looked quickly to his Ma, who got that faraway look in her eyes she got whenever she thought about his Da. She brushed the black band she wore over her left wrist--over her _Mark_ , Steve realized--with some sadness on her face. Granny McDonald gave her hand a comforting squeeze before letting go of both of them.

 

“But not all Marks are gray,” Granny McDonald began again, in English this time. “They only go gray when a person’s soulmate dies. When both soulmates are alive, they come in all sorts of beautiful colors. That’s how soulmates find each other: the colors of their Mark will match the other’s. My Albert and I had green ones before he passed.” She touched the green band on her left wrist in quick acknowledgement.

 

Steve frowned down at his own blank, bandless wrist. “Does everyone have a Mark?” he asked, rubbing his empty wrist self-consciously.

 

Granny McDonald gave him a warm, reassuring smile. <A stór,> she said his nickname in Gaelic affectionately, “that just means your soulmate hasn’t been born yet. She’ll probably be much younger than you if a Mark hasn’t come by now.” She gave Sarah a smirk that he couldn’t grasp the meaning of.

 

“That’s all that means, honey,” Sarah cut in with a small smile, turning back to him. “Anyone without a Mark just means their soulmate hasn’t been brought onto this Earth yet.”

 

Steve gave a sigh of relief. “Oh.”

  
After consuming his soup, he’d been able to sleep peacefully that night. But after that night, he’d always beg for Granny McDonald or his Ma to tell him the story of Joanna again, and he’d rub his wrist, eager to see what shade his Mark would turn out to be.

* * *

These days, sleep comes harder to Steve than it used to.

 

Except now, since the serum, Steve doesn’t need as much sleep anymore. He can get away with two or three hours for a few days before his body feels the deep effects of fatigue. Besides it hasn’t been easier to sleep given his current surroundings, where he’s constantly on guard, whether it’s dodging bullets, infiltrating Hydra bases, avoiding bombs, or fighting in the trenches. But every once in awhile, he’s able to catch snatches of sleep when he or another Commando can liberate a truck or car.

 

On long trips such as these, Steve likes to watch the countryside pass by as they drive down the long stretches of road. Steve’s sprawled in the back of the truck, trying to sleep, except after seeing the destruction of the church and its small town yesterday, sleep still isn’t easy. He itches for his sketchbook so he can draw everything good he’s witnessed: from the goofy expressions on Dum Dum’s face, to the sparse trees of the passing countryside, to Bucky’s slouching figure in sleep. Ever since it became one of his favorite pastimes, drawing’s served as a cathartic for Steve, as a way to banish the dark things he remembers by committing them down to paper. It’s once he’s put down the pencil after a long stretch of sketching, that he can really sleep.

 

There's not much room for a sketchbook in his pockets, though, and there's even less he can do to divert himself from his demons while they’re on the road.

 

The conversation died out a long time ago, most of his team dropping off to sleep, and Steve doesn’t want to disturb them of their forty winks just for entertainment. He sits back and watches the blurring foliage on the trees, and the yellow fields bereft of cattle or sheep that they pass. The road is uneven, and the truck jitters with each rock it hits. The potholes are the worst; every once in awhile, the truck bounces hard as a tire falls in, making the men inside fly a few feet and jostle their supplies.

 

Steve hunkers down further in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and resting his head against the truck. The landscape is beautiful, and reminds him of the paintings he’d seen in books about the Louvre. The only sort of landscape he’d been able to practice drawing when he had been younger had been the packed and crowded neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights. He has to admit, looking back, that there had been points of interest in those works: a clothesline with drying white sheets and shirts and socks, the old men with their push carts, fishmongers working the oyster food stalls. He remembers the bustle and noise and the awful smell of Brooklyn and smiles, missing his home so hard there’s an ache in his chest.

 

Steve can’t help but wonder what his Ma would think of her son if she could see him now.

 

He only managed to get into art school after she had died, and he’s sure she’d have been pleased about his going, despite the short stint that it was. “The first Rogers to go to college,” she would have said, her face beaming with pride. She’d known he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps by becoming a soldier in the 107th, and it wasn’t a secret that she disapproved of his choice in career. Regardless, she encouraged him to fight for himself and told him to always stand up no matter how many times he was pushed down.

 

He knows she would have been absolutely floored by his transformation, except that she would have hated the repeated lying he’d done in order to try to get into the army to prove himself, and the risk he’d taken for his new body. At the same time, he wonders what Granny McDonald would think about this. She’d probably swear at him in Gaelic and smack him upside his head.

 

<Only bad men lie!> She had told him on numerous occasions, growing up. <And bad men go to Hell! Do _you_ want to go to Hell? >

 

“No ma’am,” he’d reply, making his eyes as wide as they could go so that she’d have pity on him and leave him be. (She often did too when he gave her that wide-eyed look.)

 

But he could hardly blame them their disappointment. After all, a guy can only take so many 4Fs before it began to make him feel desperate for a chance. He would have gotten a kick out of their reactions, though: super soldier wandering around Europe with a team of the best men he knew, chasing after Hydra. It sounds like the kind of science fiction he’d read as a kid; something straight out of _Astounding Stories_. They would have been pleased with him; they wouldn’t have been able to help their bragging about him and would take every chance they got to embarrass him when he would return home on leave.

 

He sobers suddenly at the thought of them listening to him describe days like yesterday: standing in the church, picking up pieces of charred wreckage to look for survivors, and in the end finding only a ghost of a town. Even the thought of them knowing that on his travels, he is constantly witnessing the destruction caused by war. His chest aches; they would have been saddened by this war. It’s best they’re gone now, he reasons, then they don’t have to see what the world’s become.

 

He wonders most of all what they’d have to say about his Markless wrist.

 

It isn’t exactly normal being Markless, especially at his age. In fact, it’s a topic people just don’t talk about, given that anyone over the age of sixteen--the socially acceptable age difference between soulmates--and _still_ Markless is viewed as a pedophile. Steve knows it isn’t fair; no one gets to decide when their soulmate will be born, and speaking as someone without a Mark, he would much prefer to have a soulmate already alive than not even conceived yet. As much as Steve hated wearing a band over his left wrist, back in New York it was easier to give people less ammunition to use against him when he had so many health issues and a stiff wind could knock him flat.

 

These days he doesn’t mind, and it wouldn’t offend anyone here even if he did go out without a band on.

 

His one consolation is that he isn’t alone anymore.

 

Most of the soldiers that he and the Commandos encounter on the battlefield are either Markless, like him, or have Marks on their wrists that have turned gray. Hell, the only reason Dr. Erskine's nomination for Project Rebirth was approved in the end was _because_ he is Markless. Steve, in his worst moments of self-pity, can’t help but be jealous of his fellow soldiers that have gray marks. Despite losing their soulmates, they had _met_ them already. They had _known_ the person who shared their Mark. They had a name and a face and a _voice_ to go along with that swatch of color on their wrist.

 

He didn’t.

 

He knows it’s selfish, especially when he thinks back on all the battles he’s been involved with as Captain America, watching as men younger than him were blown to bits right in front of him. Or when he’d liberated prisoners of war and saw with his own eyes men who were tortured and starved, or when he’s in the trenches and knows that there are soldiers who are having limbs amputated in medical tents all across Europe while he’s busy trying to bring down Hydra.

 

 _Numerous_ doesn’t even cover the amount of pain and suffering and death he sees each day.

 

The truck hits another pothole, knocking Steve around in the truck. He grunts before scrubbing a hand over his forehead, trying to ease the throbbing in his head. Sighing heavily, he resettles into his seat and scrunches his eyes shut. He tries again to sleep.

 

There’s one man in particular that sticks out in Steve’s memory, from one of his earliest battles on the front; the memory often surfaces in Steve’s mind when he tries to find respite. Lieutenant Johnson had a gray Mark on his wrist, and his heart had stopped before the doctors had managed to bring him back to life on the operating table.

 

When Johnson’s glassy eyes had focussed on the tent above him, and when the realization of where he was hit him, his face fell and his eyes looked like the light had gone out before they quickly welled up with tears. Steve hadn’t yet seen a man break apart before, but Johnson shattered like a glass window after meeting a baseball. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath, and his face was streaked with a flood of tears that wouldn’t stop. His voice broke on a sob, and his hand clenched the gray sheet over his stomach; he sounded like he was in pain.

 

“Are you hurt?” The doctor asked. His voice was calm, but his body belied it: his eyes were wide and frantic with worry, and his hands hovered over his patient, unsure.

 

“No,” Johnson croaked through his tears, shaking his head, his hair scraping against the poor excuse for a pillow. He screwed his eyes shut. “But I’m reliving the worst kind of pain.”

 

“What do you mean?” Steve asked, eyebrows furrowed in curiosity.

 

“I was back on my family’s cottage,” Johnson explained, a pained smile on his lips as tears continued to flow. “It was out in the country and we’d go there every summer. And he was there. My Freddie--oh God!” His face crumpled in agony. “My Freddie! He’d died! He’s gone! I’d seen it with my own eyes: he was blown up in The Blitz--”

 

His right hand travelled to his left side, towards his left wrist where it wrapped around his gray Mark possessively.

 

“But God, I could smell him again,” Johnson whispered, a watery smile on his face and his eyes still closed, imagining his soulmate in front of him. “It was like he rolled around in freshly cut grass; the smell just clung to him. His kisses always tasted like lemonade--”

 

“Sir, you have to stop talking now,” the doctor whispered, leaning over Johnson so the soldier could hear him, the warning clear in his voice.

 

Steve looked around the medical tent to make sure no one had heard, but all the attendants were busy trying to save lives and didn’t care about the admission Johnson had made.

 

“That bleeding soulmate story is true,” Johnson whispered quietly as his face was smoothed of the wrinkles of discontent he’d had before.

 

Steve’s attention snapped back down to the lieutenant. “Johnson, Freddie would _not_ want you to die now,” Steve ordered, his voice brooking no argument while inside he was panicking at Johnson’s lax expression. “Don’t you _dare_ disappoint him.”

 

Johnson smiled like he knew a coveted secret. “You don’t know my Freddie,” he said, his voice slurring as he was pulled down into sleep. “He was ne’er one fer waitin’.”

 

Two days later Johnson died of infection.

 

Steve sees a lot of men like Johnson out on the front: men in the service who either have gray Marks, or shared a Mark, or found their soulmate in their brother-in-arms like Horowitz and Edwards, or like Steve’s fellow Commandos: Gabe Jones and Jacques Dernier.

 

It doesn’t bother him, and out there on the front lines, it hardly matters what two soulmates do if no one’s around to pay attention.

 

Steve sighs heavily and gives up trying to nap. He opens his eyes and watches the scenery. After a few minutes, his eyes stray from the passing countryside and flick towards Jones and Dernier, who sit huddling together in the back of the truck. They’re speaking to each other quietly in French, Jones’s dark fingers tracing over Dernier’s maroon Mark. Dernier smiles contentedly at the contact and Steve has to look away. He’s not a prude, but it doesn’t make him feel any less embarrassed at catching them in such a private moment. It probably doesn’t help that he covets stolen moments between soulmates, and out here on the front collects them like a kid with marbles.

 

It’s not like he saw a lot of these kinds of moments where he grew up, anyway, in a place where a shared Mark between two people of the same sex is extremely taboo. To some people, a shared Mark means a shared bed. The only way same-sex soulmates can possibly get away with their Mark is by dismissively saying that it’s because they’ve been best friends all their lives, which in some cases is true: there _are_ platonic soulmates. Steve even knows that there are family members who can be soulmates, like Kelly and her father Patrick who had lived with him and his Ma in the tenement apartment.

 

Sometimes, though, it’s a blatant lie.

 

At the thought, he can’t help but huff a laugh. According to his Catholic upbringing, bad men who lied and sinned went to Hell and were punished, while good men who didn’t do either went to Heaven and got to be with their loved ones again. But men who enjoyed the company of other men, automatically sinned and went to Hell no matter what they did to redeem themselves.

 

Steve adjusts his glove, brushing the place where his Mark should be as he does. It seems Steve is going to Hell no matter what kind of life he leads.

 

When Steve was eleven, he began to have funny thoughts about men. It wasn’t until he hit puberty that he first laid eyes on a bluesy. One of his pals, Joey, had shown him and the other neighborhood boys a book he’d taken from his older brother. It had pictures of girls doing improper things to guys, and while the eyes of the other boys were riveted on the buxom blonds, redheads, and brunettes drawn on the pages, Steve’s eyes were glued to the robust men.

 

At night it was hard to experiment with his body while living in a crowded house, but whenever he had a moment to himself, Steve closed his eyes and tried to conjure bright red lips and curves that went on for days. But the red lipstick would smear away and become mustaches, and the curves would harden, and the outline of cocks would appear in trousers. Instead of painted nails attached to delicate and soft hands, images of calloused fingers and hands bigger than his own pushed their way into his head of their own accord.

 

Steve wasn’t naive: he knew how queers were looked down upon, and treated, especially in his neck of the woods. But no matter how hard he tried in the beginning to banish the images of men from his head, and think about girls in the same context that he thinks of men, it was _impossible_ . Steve couldn’t lie to himself: he was queer. He _is_ queer.

 

He stares down at his Markless wrist, imagining the myriad of technicolor that could appear on his skin at literally any given moment, and wondering which one he would prefer to have to look at for the rest of his days. But looking down at his wrist and trying to decide which color he’d want is like trying to imagine what the actual color of those stained glass windows were back when he was colorblind--he knows it's something he can't comprehend. Even though he’s attracted to men, and is more than aware of the looks he gets in his new body from _both_ sexes, Steve still firmly believes in waiting for the right partner. No matter how much time may pass before he meets his soulmate, he’s determined to wait. He doesn’t know what will be between their legs, but he _does_ know that, whoever they are, they will be perfect for him.

 

Whenever he allows himself to think about it, Steve can’t imagine a life where he’s married to a woman and still attracted to men. The whole thing fills him with confusion. Before he understood that he wasn’t like normal boys, the idea of someone being his other half, being a person who would complete him, made him so excited; he couldn’t wait to meet them.

 

But as he got older, and he became aware of his own sexuality, the idea of a soulmate became complicated and convoluted. He constantly wonders what his soulmate will be like, and how will his soulmate be the person suited to him anyway? Will his soulmate be the man of his dreams, resulting in a future where they’d have to live in fear and hide their love because it’s a ‘sin’? Or will his soulmate be a woman, who he is sure he would love anyway, but he would still have to spend his life lying and lusting after the opposite sex? And what would happen then, if he fell in love with someone else? A man? What then?

 

No matter how he looks at it, in the end Steve always loses. He can’t see a solution where he and his soulmate would be happy, even in his musings. He would be uncomfortable either way.

 

He doesn’t know how he will do it, and living in the uncertainty of it is...exhausting.  

 

If he were to choose the lesser of two evils though, Steve hopes his soulmate is a female. He prays each night that the person who shares his Mark will be a woman for their safety, regardless of what that future may bring.

  
Sometimes, underneath his army-issued band, the pale bare skin of his wrist itches.

* * *

Long before he had been put onto the battlefield, and met others like himself, Steve thought he was the only one without a Mark.

 

Before he was nine, he hadn’t known anyone else who was Markless until Bucky had helped him out in their first fight. Steve doesn’t even remember what it had been about anymore, but they’d managed to drive the bullies off, until it was just him and Bucky alone in the alley. Bucky had looked down at Steve and smiled a bloody grin. Then he stretched out his left hand to help Steve up, and Steve was startled to see a wrist that was just as blank as his own. They’d been best friends ever since.

 

Even though they were both Markless, their attitudes about it were completely different. Bucky was more cynical about soulmates, whereas Steve was more optimistic. Instead of looking down at his blank wrist and wondering with hope in his heart and a smile on his face what his soulmate would be like, Bucky sneered derisively whenever he was reminded of it. Whenever Steve spoke excitedly about the subject of Marks or soulmates, Bucky would make a face or roll his eyes, but he always listened to what Steve had to say and even had a word or two to contribute, but mostly didn’t enjoy talking about Marks or soulmates.

 

Then there was the fact that Bucky went on dates with dames who were Markless too.

 

This had horrified Steve at first, especially when Bucky would drag him along on a double date. It wasn’t the fact that the dates were women--it wouldn’t matter if they were _men_ , neither gave him the time of day--what had bothered him was was that they were Markless. Before Bucky had shipped out, Steve and him would always get into an argument over it.

 

“You both have soulmates!” Steve would shout. “What’s so wrong with waiting for them to come around?”

 

“Why should a _dot_ play matchmaker for me?” Bucky always asked angrily. “If I find a good gal, who doesn’t have a Mark like me--why should we _both_ be miserable waiting around for someone who might not come, when we could be happy together _despite_ being Markless?”

 

Steve had shaken his head at his ludicrous friend; he’d never understand Bucky. Why would you want to be with anyone else when God had Marked someone meant just for you?

 

It took Peggy Carter punching Hodges in the face on the first day of basic training for Steve to finally begin to understand what Bucky meant. Steve had been impressed by everything she did during Basic. Even while being stationed in London after he quit his bond-selling days, as Steve got to know her better, he had more and more cause to admire Agent Carter. He’s continually inspired by her displays of ferocity, the dangerous glint in her eye whenever anyone gives her shit sends shivers running down his spine. His knees get weak at her sharp mouth and her shrewd mind. On the whole, Peggy Carter makes him feel awed and terrified of her all at once.

 

But of all the things Steve learned about Peggy, he never in a million years expected her to be Markless. She always wears a wristwatch in place of the customary soul bands, but on one occasion when he was down and had confessed to her that he was nearly twenty-five and still didn’t have a Mark, she had stared at him a while, a pensive expression on her face. Then she wordlessly took off her watch and showed him her wrist.

 

It was blank too.

 

He had been stunned to see a wrist as bare as the one that greets him every day. He stared at her, and she smiled softly.

 

“Is that your best impression of a fish, Rogers?” She’d asked with some amusement as she put her wristwatch back on.

 

He shut his mouth with a snap. “But,” he tried, “you’re a gorgeous dame.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I, I mean woman,” he stammered. “I just. I don’t understand.”

 

“What’s to understand?” she asked, truly curious, folding her arms over her lap.

 

“I just thought that a da--a _woman_ as gorgeous and self-assured as you would already have a Mark,” he explained, self-consciously rubbing his blank skin.

 

Peggy reached a hand out and laid it gently over his wrist. Steve could swear he felt tingles run up his arm at the contact. He lifted his gaze and met her golden brown eyes.

 

“Steve,” she said gently. “There are plenty of things I value more than a soulmate. A Mark doesn’t bring respect or validation. Even if I had a Mark, I’m still a woman, and would still be treated as less than a man.”

 

“But don’t you get lonely?” Steve asked. “Doesn’t that appeal to you? A person made just for you? Who would _understand_ you?”

 

Peggy paused, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I get lonely just like anyone else, yes,” she said softly. When she opened her eyes, that flame of ferocity glowed bright. “But people who share Marks don’t always equate happiness, Steve. I can’t rely on a dot to be my fairy godmother who will magically appear and solve all my problems with a wave of her wand; life doesn’t work that way.”

 

Steve was silent as he mulled this over. “But someone who could love you unconditionally? Doesn’t that--”

 

“Why should my having a Mark change the way I feel about myself?” Peggy challenged gently, leaning forward and staring into his eyes intently, her grip on his wrist tightening. “Having a Mark shouldn’t change how one feels about oneself. I love myself as I am without the help of a soulmate. I know my value, Rogers. I don’t need the opinion of a soulmate to validate it.”

 

And every time Steve thinks back on that conversation, he loves her fiercely for it. Every time he thinks about it, he sighs in relief. Because that small act of kindness made Steve realize the possibility that he could fall in love with Agent Carter. He probably would feel the same way even if she _did_ have a Mark, but what Peggy did for him was to help him realize that it shouldn’t matter if a person had a Mark or not in order to love someone else. They just had to be themselves and hope for the best, but remember their own value and worth first. That encounter had cemented Bucky’s belief that Markless people can find happiness in each other, and when Steve told him this, Bucky only smirked and patted him on the back.

 

But despite all this, sometimes late at night and in his darkest moments, Steve isn’t sure his soulmate will ever come. He’s one part terrified that he’ll be ninety before any swatch of color appears on his wrist, or worse that a swatch of bright color will appear, but in a matter of seconds will fade to gray without him ever knowing their name; because he’s heard stories of that happening where a soulmate will die at childbirth. He isn’t sure which prospect is worst; both seem equally terrifying. So when he’s alone in his tent at night, he’ll take off his band, lie in bed, close his eyes and run his fingers over his wrist, and all the while pretend it’s someone else who’s stroking his wrist. Then in the morning he’ll put his band on, push all the doubts and fears he has for his soulmate to the back of his mind, and be Captain America for another day.

 

Even though he’s Markless, it doesn’t make Steve bitter. Not always, anyway; only on the worst days does he feel any sort of anger. But on the good days, he’s optimistic. Either way, the fact that he’s Markless doesn’t diminish the comfort he gets from rubbing the band he keeps on his wrist, or his enjoyment of rereading the passage about Joanna from the Bible, or change the way he feels about himself.

  
It doesn’t stop him from wondering about the nameless person he has yet to meet that is meant for him.


	2. I don't think I'm coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It wasn’t your fault,” Peggy says, cutting right to the chase, her voice gentle.
> 
> Steve is getting so sick of hearing that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, huge HUGE thanks to [venvephe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/pseuds/venvephe) for keeping me sane throughout all of this, and to [inheritanceofgeek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inheritanceofgeek/pseuds/inheritanceofgeek) for making me laugh. The Blitz took place during 1940-1941, so it wouldn't have made sense that the bar in CA:TFA had been bombed since the movie takes place during and after 1943. Despite the history, I opted to follow movie canon.
> 
> Take it up with my attorneys if you have a problem.
> 
> Also, no your eyes are not lying: the chapter count has gone from five to six.

**CHAPTER TWO**

 

_“I’m sorry for your loss.”_

 

Steve has gotten so many condolence letters, he could paper his old bedroom in Brooklyn with them. He thinks he’s gotten more now than he ever did when his Ma died. They all start off the same.

 

_“He was a fine soldier--”_

 

Steve wants to laugh at that. The fallen are more than a uniform.

 

_“--a good man--”_

 

He is the best Steve’s ever known. Was.

 

_“--it’s a damn shame.”_

 

_“He’s in a better place.”_

 

Those are just empty words in a time of war.

 

Steve just wants to be left alone. He wants nothing more than to crawl under the blankets of his bed, curl up into a ball, and stay there forever. Ever since he came back from the Alps, he hasn’t been able to sleep a wink. All he’s been able to do is stare at the ceiling in the barracks. It’s gotten to the point that he can actually see shapes and patterns in the rough-textured wall.

 

Time is a strange thing when a person’s grieving; it just doesn’t pass the same way like it did--before. Everything seems to slow down, and pass a person by all at once that it’s been easy for him to lose track of how many hours he’s lain awake at night until the sun’s coming up, or he hears the bells signalling everyone to get up and start another day. Steve’s been feeling like he’s standing away from life, feeling so disconnected with the rest of the world that it’s as though he’s watching a newsreel about a foreign country; he can hardly care.

 

He hasn’t been able to sleep since the ride back to London.

 

The plane ride back to the SSR London branch was hell on everyone. It was long and turbulent, and Steve and the rest of the Commandos had been packed together as tight as sardines in a can, surrounding him on all sides. Even though his team had succeeded in apprehending Zola, the obvious loss to their party brought the mood down on an otherwise successful mission. No one spoke, everyone was withdrawn and introspective, Steve most of all.

 

Once they made it back to London, and Steve had seen to it personally that Zola was in the hands of the SSR, he decided the team needed a break. He called a meeting and simply sent them all on leave to get their heads on straight.

 

“We brought Zola in. Our job is done,” he had said. “Now we just have to let the SSR’s intelligence agents do theirs and figure out where Schmidt is and what his plans are.”

 

There were no objections. Everyone went their separate ways, each of the Commandos looking weary and ragged, like they could fall dead asleep where they stood. Before they left, each of them came over to Steve and paid their respects. They either gave him a squeeze on the shoulder, or a pat on his back, accompanied with a sad smile, but never said a word. They didn’t have to. He’s grateful to them for it.

 

He was just preparing to leave when Peggy stopped him in his tracks.

 

His heart clenches painfully at the memory.

 

“Agent Carter,” he had greeted. Usually seeing Peggy sent butterflies fluttering in his stomach, the very real possibility that he might make a fool of himself in her presence always made him uneasy. But at the time he was exhausted, and he just wanted to collapse onto his bed and be away from the world for a while.

 

“Captain," she nodded in acknowledgement before getting right to the point. “I’m sorry to report that the city was bombed once again in the night.”

 

Steve was confused at the conversation starter, but he couldn’t help but feel bad for the Londoners. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said with sincerity. “Were there any casualties?”

 

“Thankfully not, but the city took quite the beating. Many people have been left homeless due to it.”

 

Steve nodded, not sure what this had to do with him, especially not now after...just after.

 

“Steve,” Peggy said gently, her brown eyes warm with empathy. “Your and Sergeant Barnes’s flat was amongst the buildings that had been bombed last night.”

 

It felt like his insides had been cut loose, and they had fallen to his feet in a heap. Steve couldn’t breathe, and for a moment it was like he was asthmatic again: struggling to draw in air. It took all his focus to stay standing upright instead of falling to the ground. He took a deep breath. “How bad?” he croaked, his fists clenched at his side to ground him.

 

Peggy’s eyebrows were drawn together, her eyes soft with regret. “There is nothing left of the building.”

 

Steve took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and released it slowly. Everything he and Bucky owned was in that apartment. Bucky’s letters from his sisters and Ma, an aged portrait of Steve’s parents. Bucky’s small record collection that he’d been proud of. A photograph of Steve and Bucky as kids, and another from when they had gone to Coney Island just before Pearl Harbor. Steve’s sketchbooks filled with doodles and studies of Bucky, his Ma, and Granny McDonald. Bucky’s books, with their cracked spines and dog-eared, yellowed pages. Steve’s father’s watch. His mother’s soul band.

 

Now it’s all gone.

 

“Steve, are you alright?” Peggy asked, placing a concerned hand on his arm.

 

“Yeah. Yeah.” Steve nodded his head jerkily, his throat dry as he tried repeatedly to swallow and gather words.

 

“We’re arranging another housing situation for you, but it’s taking longer than we anticipated.” She hurriedly explained, trying to assuage any worries he had, which is pretty laughable, all things considered.

 

“It’s...fine.” Steve said with a forced smile. He had aimed his tone to be reassuring, but looking back, he’s sure he wasn’t successful. He felt like his skin was suffocating him, and he had wanted to claw out of it. "I'll just sleep in the barracks."

 

"It will only be temporary," Peggy assured quickly.

 

"Thank you. Agent Carter."

 

Without another word, Steve headed down to the barracks.

 

The walk down was dimly lit by the lights above, and he only passed a few people on his way. It had felt strange to be walking down the long corridor towards a place he’d never really been before except in passing. Of course he knew where the barracks were, but because he was Captain America, he had his own place to call his own. After months on the road at a time camping with Bernie, who played Hitler in the USO show, and then weeks with the Howling Commandos on their missions, he’d always been grateful to have his own space.

 

It didn’t take him long to reach the barracks, and it was still empty considering the time of day. One of the officers had been down there at the time of Steve’s arrival--probably had been told what to expect if his gushing was any indication--and had pointed Steve to a cot that no one was using at the far end of the room. He nodded his thanks and claimed it for his own.

 

After undressing and preparing for sleep, Steve climbed into bed, flinging the gray itchy blanket over his legs and laid his head down onto the flat pillow. He had finally found a position that could have been loosely called comfortable with his back to the door of the barracks. He was just closing his eyes, when the door banged open and the loud, obnoxious voices of the soldiers filled the room; their voices reverberating off the curved, concrete walls.

 

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, feeling small and like he was back in Fort Lehigh all over again, with the other soldiers in Basic for company and not being able to find a moment’s peace. Suddenly the laughter and joking cut off, and Steve’s ears only met silence. Confused, Steve trained his ears and caught bits of conversation.

 

“...just lost his friend, Sergeant Barnes--” said the officer that had met him at the door.

 

Steve didn’t bother to listen anymore after that.

 

After the lights went out, and everyone was laying in their beds, it was quiet for a long time as Steve tried to find peace. He had finally managed to shut his eyes, and he had evened out his breathing to sleep. Then he heard Bucky’s scream and images of the train, the cold, flashed through his mind, and the smell of burnt skin filled his nose, making Steve sit up in bed, breathing heavily and back slick with sweat. His fists had clenched the sheets and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the images from his mind.

 

He hasn’t slept since.

 

Steve looks around the room, at the sleeping forms of soldiers lying in their beds. He envies them their peaceful slumber. His nightmares have been plaguing him for days, tainting any wink of sleep he’s been trying to get.

 

There are soldiers all around him, which Steve is already used to and doesn’t have a problem with normally. They’re all nice men, but that’s part of the problem. They tiptoe around him, and treat him like he’s made of glass. No soldier’s ever treated him like something that could shatter; not even when he was ninety pounds soaking wet and had a list of health issues as long as his skinny arm while doing his stint in Basic. Under normal circumstances, Steve would have been furious, but nowadays he can’t find the energy to care. Sure, they leave him alone when they see him coming, but Steve knows by now when he’s interrupted a conversation about himself. His superiors are all respectful, but whenever he sees them, they practically tsk at him in sympathy. At least in their flat, Bucky had known when to leave Steve alone to sulk and when to kick him in the head to get him up.

 

The letters are another issue.  Despite the mission that took Bucky’s life being highly classified and need-to-know, it didn’t stop people from talking about him and the mission itself after Zola was captured. The first one came a day after Steve bunked in the Barracks, and they haven’t stopped. They arrive in droves; sometimes in Mail Call, Steve is the only one who gets anything. He got some thoughtful, simple condolences written by his fellow soldiers who had heard the news, a few that were longer, almost like reports from SSR agents, and even a very thoughtful letter from _President Franklin Roosevelt_. It’s touching, really, that all these people would offer their best wishes and prayers to Steve, but...

 

They didn’t even known Bucky. To them he’s just a name, a pal of Captain America’s. A character in a comic book. Not a living, breathing person who had crippling moments of self-doubt, stubborn opinions about Markless people, devotion to his sisters and mother, and unwavering loyalty to his friends.

 

They don’t know about the man behind the name.

 

As for Steve, he wrote only one letter, and he would much rather not write another one like it. Though Bucky was a trouble-shooting sniper and a member of the Howling Commandos, he was also Sergeant Barnes, and Steve is Captain Rogers: his superior officer. Even though he had offers from others to take over the horrible privilege of writing Bucky’s family about his death, Steve refused them all.

 

It was Steve’s duty not only as Bucky’s superior officer, but as his friend and brother to write to Winifred Barnes, who was practically another mother to him, and break the news to her that her son had died for his country. Even though he sent the letter days ago, Steve doesn’t remember what he wrote; he was numb the entire time and had written it almost mechanically. By the time the letter was handed off and on its way, Steve sat back in the rickety wooden chair at his desk, the whole thing leaving a horrible taste in his mouth, and he knew it wasn’t because of the glue used to seal the envelope.

 

He didn’t sleep that night, either--not that he was expecting to.

 

That’s been his biggest issue. He hasn’t been able to sleep properly in days. The cot is lumpy, his pillow is a rock and the blankets itch on his skin. The flat he and Bucky had shared in central London was by no means Buckingham Palace, but it was certainly better than the shack they shared back in Brooklyn; it was practically an exotic getaway compared to the tiny place they had before they even entered the war.

 

The dreams are the other problem.

 

Every time he closes his eyes to try and sleep, he hears the train chugging on the tracks, he can feel the wind rushing past his face, and the sound of Bucky’s scream bouncing back at him off the Alps. Steve, for the life of him, never wants to see a train again as long as he lives. Just the thought of it leaves him feeling cold and brittle inside. He’s tired--exhausted, really, and wants nothing more than to mourn in peace and be left alone.

 

But he _can’t_. There’s a war going on that he has to finish--that _Captain America_ has to finish. He’s never resented being Captain America; not really anyway. Throughout the USO show, he’d...grudgingly tolerated his “title”. He felt silly doing the song and dance number, and everyone slinging the name around as though it meant something; Peggy got it right when she’d asked if being a trained monkey was his only other option to being studied in a lab. It wasn’t until he rescued Bucky and the rest of 107th that he realized that he could use the name. He could turn Captain America into something he could be proud of; a tool to be used to stand for something.

 

So no, he didn’t really hate being Captain America. Not until the cost of putting on the stars and stripes meant losing Bucky. He hadn’t...he’d never factored that as a possibility: that he could lose Bucky while he was out there with him. That wasn’t supposed to happen. What good is it being physically capable of anything, when he can’t even save his best friend?

 

Now he hates the shield. He hates the burden of it. He hates that he’ll never be done. He curses what he’s done to himself; that he boxed himself into a corner by his own sense of duty and responsibility. He’s given this one chance to be _Steve Rogers_ , to mourn his best friend right--but as hard as he tries, the tears _won’t_ come.

 

He can't cry. And that hurts. Or it would hurt, if Steve is able to feel anything. There’s nothing except a numbness throughout his body that’s left him feeling bland and flat. If he could cry, that would mean being able to feel again. He feels this loss acutely in his chest, and it’s nothing like he’s ever experienced before. When his Ma died of TB, and Granny McDonald died of influenza, he’d cried so hard for them both that he would launch into a coughing fit. He hadn’t been able to _stop_ crying. But losing Bucky is a strange and staggering new experience for Steve. He wishes he could cry. Bucky deserves that much: to be mourned properly.

 

But a week has passed and he still hasn’t shed a tear.

 

Once the bells have started ringing, urging everyone to get up and when he’s able to get out of bed, Steve walks around headquarters. But everywhere he turns, eyes full of pity meet his and that’s what snaps Steve: it’s the pitying looks of his commander, and the courtesy of the soldiers and the agents of the SSR, and the barracks themselves that makes him leave.

 

Steve takes a walk. He leaves from the civilian entrance, the one that goes out onto one of the busiest streets of London. He’s expecting the cool air of the city and relishes it. But the minute he steps outside, the smell of burnt brick assaults his nose and the taste of gravelly ash coats his tongue.

 

He looks up and sees the destruction of the city all around him.

 

Homes are a pile of bricks on the ground, storefronts are blasted out onto the street, the cobbled road is littered with giant holes. Steve takes a deep steadying breath, feeling disoriented. It’s like being back out on the front again: the familiar sight of burnt buildings and smelling the charred remnants of brick and plaster in his nose that he had become accustomed to. But experiencing it in London? It’s almost like two memories overlapping each other, creating an alternate reality.

 

He turns away.

 

He keeps walking. He doesn’t care where, just away. He lets his thoughts wander, as he passes familiar streets and strangers straggling out in the grim daylight. He’s never thought of London as a home, Brooklyn will always be his home. But after being transferred out here, the city had almost felt comforting and familiar after being away so long in the fight. Coming back to London after being gone for months at a time, felt almost as good as coming home to his Ma after a long day of doing everything and nothing with Bucky. That’s how it had felt now during the war: that they were doing what they always did, only this time with guns and destruction instead of sticks and baseballs.

 

He stops walking. A crumpled sign on the ground in front of him amongst a pile of ash blocks his path. Curious, he crouches down and runs his hand along the front of it, scraping off the blackened dust.

 

In elegant script, the sign reads ‘The Stork Club’.

 

Shocked, his head snaps up at the building. He can see right into the inside of the pub. The entrance to the bar has been completely blown away; it looks like it exploded from the inside out. There’s pieces of the ceiling on the ground, long planks of wood dropped haphazardly onto piles of brick and rubble, broken glass from the windows strewn all over the street.

 

Steve exhales shakily. Resignation settles into his bones, and he stands up from the rubble, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

 

He steps inside, going straight to the bar; the destruction around him is so familiar to him now that it’s almost soothing. He only has to move a few things that stand between him and his goal, his hands are stained black and gray from the dust by the end of it. Once he’s able to approach the bar, he looks through the collection of liquor. There are mostly shattered bottles, and pieces of glass on the ground behind the counter of the bar. He finds one bottle that’s intact, and when he dusts off the label to find out what it is, he discovers that it’s half-empty.

 

He couldn’t care less.

 

Steve searches through the glasses that are behind the bar. It’s the same story as his search for the liquor: crushed glass, shattered glass and only a few cracked. He finds one small glass that’s whole. It’s dusty as all hell, so he spits into it and cleans the inside with a handkerchief from his pocket. He sets the bottle and glass onto the bar.

 

He looks around through the rubble, everything is gray and black and it’s odd compared to the bright, colorful-filled memories he has of the place in his mind. He finds a miraculously intact table that he dusts off with his handkerchief, running the cloth carefully in each decorative carving in the wood. He’s never noticed before until he clears the dust off and he’s running his thumb along the smooth wood that the decorative curls and intricate cuts in the wood are roses.

 

Huffing in grim amusement, Steve picks the table up off the ground and centers it a few feet in front of the bar and the exploded once-upright piano. He searches again through the wreckage, digging through ash and brick, raising dust into the air that would have once made him choke and cough, but now it just makes Steve grit his teeth against the taste in his mouth. He doesn’t stop until he finds a perfectly preserved chair. It receives the same treatment as the table; Steve cleans it off as best he can until he’s satisfied. Then he drags it over to the table and sets the small glass and the liquor bottle he found atop the surface of the table before he sits down.

 

Then Steve pours himself a drink.

 

After five or six fingers of the stuff, trying to preserve the liquor for as long as possible, he stares listlessly at the ash in the air as it dances around the green liquor bottle, waiting for the alcohol to take effect. He takes another shaky breath, beginning to feel the drink. Steve becomes aware of the blood rushing through his veins, the alcohol travelling to his brain, making him feel light-headed and flushed. Steve looks down at his hands, his vision going hazy. He quirks a smile.

 

This will be it, he thinks. He’ll be able to drink again, just like he used to with Bucky. He’ll be able to down this glass and feel drunk and stumble his way home. Bucky will catch sight of him at the door and shake his head at him, laughing; radiating warmth and delight--

 

But then just as quick, the feeling passes. The warmth from the alcohol that had been working its way through his body is burnt out, evaporated like all the water in the air of a fire. He’s left behind feeling heavy and even more aware of his surroundings than he was before. His heart crushes in his chest.

 

Steve sighs heavily, lifting a shaky hand to swipe at his eyes.

 

He’s never seen The Stork Club in the light of day before, but under the circumstances he’s understanding that it isn’t up to its usual par. It’s dusty and grimy and black, the insides of the building spilling out onto the cobbled street, looking mangled and dejected in the light. He can still smell the smoke from the bomb that had landed a week ago. Outside, the sky of London is a dreary gray smudged with black; it always seems to get that way after a bombing, no matter what part of Europe he’s in.

 

Steve stares at the mess around him.

 

He remembers that night he recruited the Commandos vividly: the haze of cigarette smoke thick in the air, bodies so close to each other it generates a heat, the smell of beer and ale and gin, the frivolity in the music. The atmosphere was warm and golden from the lamplight.

 

_“See? I told you. They’re all idiots.”_

 

The memory sneaks up on Steve, slowly drawing him close and he sinks into it willingly; like laying back onto a comfortably well-worn chair after a hard day. It’s like he’s back to that night; watching himself weave through the group of soldiers and dancers, and going to stand at Bucky’s side.

 

_It was amazing to Steve at the time, the difference in a person. He remembered Bucky as always being clean-cut. Even when they were both poor and had nothin’, Bucky had been sure to make a point to look spiffy and shiny, especially if there were girls involved. He’d explained to Steve once that looking clean would get him into less trouble, make him look more respectable. Steve had laughed at that. A flash of Bucky’s small, disarming smile and a one-liner or a joke was enough to let him get away with anything; it didn’t matter what he was dressed like. The clothes and his tidiness helped some, but it was all Bucky’s charm._

 

_But that night at the bar, it was like Steve was looking at a different person. Instead of hair shiny and slicked back with Brilliantine as usual, it was disheveled and hanging over Bucky’s eyes. His chin and cheeks were covered in two-day old stubble, and his clothes weren’t straight and neat. Steve hadn’t known the extent of the torture Bucky had to endure as a POW--he still doesn’t, and he regrets not talking enough to know--but Steve had figured at the time that maybe Bucky would be like his old self again if he got back into the action._

 

Steve grips his glass of liquor tightly. He wishes he’d sent Bucky home instead.

 

_“How ‘bout you?” he’d asked, sidling up onto a stool beside his friend. “You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?” He’d said it so serious, like it was a proper title that should be respected, just so he could get a laugh out of his friend. He smirked and looked over at Bucky, expecting mirth in his face, but was met with seriousness instead._

 

_“Hell no,” Bucky said bluntly, and Steve’s heart sank a little, his smirk dimming. “That little guy from Brooklyn,” he continued in a faraway voice, like he was remembering something, “who was too dumb not to run from a fight.” Bucky’s ice blue eyes met Steve’s. “I’m following him.” He smiled softly._

 

Bucky’s blue eyes had been the last thing Steve saw as he watched, helpless, as his friend fell into the ice below.

 

He’s assaulted by flashes of memories: Bucky giving him his first taste of stolen beer, and afterwards rubbing his back as he threw up the stuff in an alley ten blocks from his apartment. Bucky, coming home with dawn’s light, tossing Steve his expensive medicine, despite the fact that they hadn’t been able to afford it the day before. Bucky smiling crookedly at him while Steve drew him. Bucky flirting endlessly with the girls in their neighborhood. Granny McDonald smacking him so hard upside his head, Bucky’s dark hair fell over his eyes, making Steve laugh until he received the very same treatment. Bucky and him getting into a fight over something stupid. Steve in church drawing the windows while Bucky groaned and complained at his side. The two of them sneaking into a picture show. Both of them picking through garbage for enough money to get something sweet. Bucky and him strolling down the street, coming out of a fistfight and feeling elated and high from their victory. Bucky slinging an arm across his slim shoulders and pulling Steve into his side, like he belonged right there.

 

The night he had finally confessed to Bucky about his sexuality.

 

Steve smiles a little, remembering how something so extraordinary came out of nothing.

 

It had only been a week or so before The Train had happened. They were camped out in one of the forests, and it had been late into the night, the two of them keeping watch while the rest of the Commandos were fast asleep five feet away from them.

 

The night air had been crisp, clean and clear, nothing like the dry stuffiness of the pub Steve’s sitting in now. He and Bucky could make out every star above their heads in the inky black-blue of the night sky, and the moon shone so brightly that they could see without a fire. It was something they had never been able to experience growing up in the glowing lights of New York until they had been sent across the world to fight on the battlefield, and Steve still thought it was the most amazing thing.

 

They had been sitting side-by-side, talking about nothing until a comfortable silence settled over them. As Steve was whittling something from a stick with his pocketknife, Bucky spoke up again from his sprawl on the dusty earth.

 

“So you and Carter, huh?” Bucky had asked, giving him a teasing smile before taking a sip from the silver flask of whiskey he’d borrowed from Dum Dum. Ever since that night at the bar, when Peggy had approached Steve and given _Bucky_ of all people an elegant brush off, he’d never been able to let Steve hear the end of it.

 

Steve rolled his eyes and smiled, his knife making a _snik snik_ noise as he continued whittling. “Yeah, she’s quite a gal.” He agreed.

 

Bucky smiled up at him. “She’s a dynamite alright, buddy. But be careful with her,” he continued. “She strikes me as the type who would set fire on your ass if you give her any lip.”

 

Steve thought back to that first day in Basic, and chuckled. “You have no idea.”

 

“She kinda reminds me of Granny McDonald and your Ma that way,” Bucky drawled on, leaning back onto his elbows and stretching out his legs as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

 

Steve clasped his hands over his bent knees, pausing in his whittling. “She does, doesn’t she?” Steve asked. “Too bad she’s English.” He said with such seriousness that Bucky laughed.

 

Bucky’s face was crinkled in delight as he said, “Sarah and Granny would kill you if they knew you were sweet on an English gal.”

 

Steve laughed outright. “I think they’d have been more impressed by her character,” he said. They would have definitely bemoaned the fact that the fierce tenacity in Peggy was displayed in an English rather than an Irish girl, but there wasn’t a doubt in Steve’s mind that the two most important women in Steve’s world would have liked Peggy Carter regardless of her country of origin. “She’d have set ‘em straight.”

 

Bucky nodded. “Damn right,” he’d said as he stared up at the swirling black sky. The sound of Steve’s whittling filled the silence.

 

“So when’s the big date?” he asked after a lapse in conversation.

 

Steve stopped whittling outright. Frowning, he angled his head to stare at his friend in confusion. “What date?”

 

“The date for your and Carter’s wedding,” Bucky said, a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

 

Steve groaned. “Buck, we’re not like that! We’re not--”

 

“Soulmates, I know,” Bucky said with a disgusted grunt and a roll of his eyes. “Weren’t you the one who was just saying that you didn’t believe in that mumbo-jumbo anymore?”

 

“I never said that, Buck,” Steve said in exasperation. “I said I see your point in Markless people finding happiness in each other, and that _maybe_ I could have something--”

 

“So what’s the problem, Steve?” Bucky asked, impatience tainted his tone. “She likes you, you like her. Why’s it so wrong for you two being Markless and being together?”

 

“There’s no problem, Buck, I never said there was a--”

 

“You’re _acting_ like there’s a problem--”

 

“There _is_ no problem!” Steve whispered indignantly, gripping the stick he’d been whittling and his pocketknife so tight, he was seconds away from snapping both in half. “Okay? There’s none! I’m just not attracted to her, and you’re making it out like we’re _sweethearts--_ ”

 

“Not attract--” Bucky sputtered, as though the very idea were impossible. “Why not?” He asked, offended on Peggy’s behalf. “What’s wrong with her? Don’t you _like_ her?!”

 

“Bucky, of _course_ I like her,” Steve said, heaving a heavy sigh. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with her--”

 

“Then why don’t you--” Bucky started, but Steve cut him off before he could finish that sentence.

 

 _“Because she’s not a man!”_ Steve hissed.

 

Bucky’s eyes widened, as big as dinner plates, and his mouth dropped open.

 

Steve laughs at the memory of Bucky’s face now. He would have laughed at the time, if not for the fact that he had been so terrified by the uncertainty of what his lifelong friend would say that he could have died of a heart attack.

 

He had looked quickly away. His heart thudded against his chest, and sweat broke out along his brow. He counted to ten before he tried to speak again.

 

“I’m…” He gulped, his throat working with the effort to form words. “I’m queer, Buck,” he said at last, closing his eyes and letting the words go, and with them the heavy burden of holding them in. “I like men.”

 

They sat there, allowing the quiet stillness to settle over them. Bucky sat up, the gravel crunching underneath him as he redistributed his weight. Steve’s shoulders tensed, his spine going rigid. He dropped the stick he’d been whittling between his legs, and snapped his pocketknife closed.

 

For a while, neither of them said anything. It was five minutes before Bucky took a deep breath and spoke again.

 

“Steve,” Bucky said, almost sighed it out in fond exasperation. “I already know.”

 

Steve’s head whipped around so fast, his neck should have snapped. Bucky’s smirk and shining blue eyes met his confused expression. “Y-you do?” Steve asked instead, and Bucky nodded. “How--” he had taken a huge gulp of air while speaking, and nearly choked on his words. He paused to clear his throat, then tried again. “How did you know?”

 

Bucky snorted. “Stevie, I’ve known you since we were nine years old. I think I’ve got a pretty good read on you by now.”

 

Steve nodded, his throat dry. “Yeah,” he agreed, “but how did you find out?” he asked.

 

“No one told me, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Bucky assured. Steve had, and felt a brief relief at the reassurance. “You remember Eugene Lebowitz? You would make moon eyes at him whenever we were together, and when his family moved away, you moped around for about a month.”

 

“I didn’t mope,” Steve defended, a self-conscious blush staining his cheeks. Eugene had been his first crush, of course he moped.

 

“You _did_ mope,” Bucky said bumping his shoulder against Steve’s playfully.

 

“I did mope,” Steve admits to the quiet pub, as he fills up his glass again.

 

Silence stretched out again, crickets filling the air between them.

 

“You know it doesn’t bother me, right?” Bucky asked, softness gracing his face for the first time in what felt like forever since Steve found him in Zola’s lab. There was a gentleness in Bucky’s light blue eyes, and a small smile was on his lips.

 

“Why did you look so surprised then?” Steve asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

 

“Because I never expected you to _say_ anything,” Bucky huffed in amusement. Steve smiled despite himself.

 

“Not afraid I’m suddenly gonna try and turn you for the other side?” Steve said, trying to tease, but worried about what the answer might be nonetheless.

 

“Nah, you would’a tried a long time ago if that were the case,” Bucky grinned. Steve let out a laugh.

 

“I’m really not bothered,” Bucky said seriously once a comfortable silence settled over them. “I don’t care if you like dames, or guys, or if neither of ‘em float your boat. You’re like a brother to me, Stevie, and I love you. I’m with you till the end of the line.”

 

Steve had felt relief rush through him, like a balm to an old wound and he sagged with the feeling of it. After a while, he smirked at Bucky. “And here I thought you’d desert me,” he said. He was serious and joking all at once.

 

Steve huffs at how naive he had been.

 

Bucky had smiled and he was radiant with it. He shrugged. “Nah,” he said, as though it were nothing, and that was the best part about it all for Steve: that Bucky didn’t treat him any different. They stayed the same. “Sorry, Punk, but you’re stuck with me.”

 

Steve smiled at him gratefully before turning away. They sat in silence for a long time, just sitting there and watching the stars.

 

“Just promise me something, Punk?” Bucky asked, breaking the peaceful quiet.

 

“Anything, Buck,” Steve said immediately.

 

“If your soulmate never comes around--don’t give me that look, lemme finish,” Bucky said at the face Steve made. “Promise me that if she--or he--never shows, you’ll try to build a future with Peggy?”

 

Steve stared at him a moment, Bucky was always like a puzzle to Steve: something to be pieced together and to figure out. He had been ever since they were kids.

 

“It’s just,” Bucky heaved a sigh, as though it was difficult trying to get the words out and they weren’t cooperating. He ran a hand through his dark hair. “It’s gotta be lonely being Markless and queer,” he said at last. There was so much seriousness in his blue eyes as he evaluated Steve, that Steve couldn’t help but be mesmerized. “You deserve to be happy, Stevie, more than anyone else I know. And with Peggy, if there’s even a _slim_ chance of happiness with her, or with any other dame you come across, please promise me you’ll take it. You’ll try.”

 

Steve blinked down at his friend. He’d very rarely seen his friend so solemn that it was often a shock in these rare moments that Steve considered them precious examples of the trust Bucky had in him, and treasured every one of them. Because of it, Steve was compelled to agree. “I promise, Buck. I promise I’ll try.”

 

Bucky placed his hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezed. He smiled softly at his friend. “Thanks, Punk.”

 

Steve huffed a laugh. “Anything for you, Jerk,” he said before bumping shoulders with Bucky.

 

Steve takes a shuddering breath, before taking another drink.

 

His heart sinks to know that he isn’t stuck with Bucky now. His heart feels heavy with an ache that makes him scratch at his chest. His head hurts something fierce with a pounding that feels like his head will burst, and there’s a pang in his chest that becomes too much and he’s struggling to breathe. His skin feels like a suit that’s two sizes too small, suffocating him and scratching at him. His wrist where his Mark should be begins to burn, and Steve claws at his soul band, expecting to find a swatch of color-- _anything_ \--

 

But sees blankness instead.

 

He screws his eyes tight, trying to remember the good things about Bucky. He was as close to a soul mate as Steve had ever had in this life and it hurts so goddamned much that he’s _gone_ . And that there’s no trace of him left. Every sign of Bucky’s life--in photographs, in Steve’s sketches, in his letters--all of it is just _gone_ ; no more than burnt up and scattered ash on the ground, and that’s what hurts the most, what makes Steve feel like he’s been eviscerated.

 

That he has nothing left of his friend.

 

Steve clutches his head and bows it, curving his spine to lean over the small table.

 

There’s a noise in the destroyed pub, almost like a cry of agonized pain, and it takes a moment for Steve to realize that the noise had been ripped from his own throat. He never knew he could feel such pain before; the grief he’d felt for both his mother and his adopted grandmother seem insignificant in comparison. But it’s the first time that Steve’s _felt_ anything in what feels like ages, that he dives into it headfirst: letting the grief wash over him in waves and at last feeling its effects on his face like a waterfall.

 

It’s a long time before the tears are squeezed dry from his eyes. Once he’s done, he settles back into his chair, hands limp on the table’s surface, and legs sprawled out underneath. He feels like a towel wrung dry: limp and lackluster, while all at once feeling numb and raw inside his chest and lungs. The grief settles onto his shoulders, becoming a part of him now, almost like a birthmark in a secret place: something private that only he can see whenever he wants.

 

Steve sits there quietly, allowing fragments of memories to filter through his mind, like he’s turning pages in a photo album, turning them this way and that to be examined. Not feeling one way or another about them.

 

It isn’t long before his thoughts circle back to The Train. Steve keeps running it through his head. If he’d been quicker to get up after being knocked into the side of the train, if he’d done his job and knocked out that Hydra goon right when he saw him, if his aim wasn’t off, if he hadn’t been fooling around and _done his job,_ if he’d been paying better _goddamned_ attention he would’ve noticed it was a trap, if he’d brought someone else with him instead of Bucky--

 

Footsteps from behind snap Steve out of his reverie.

 

He looks up and twists his body toward the source of the noise. He finds Peggy Carter standing just within the periphery of his vision.

 

He blinks in confusion. How did she even know he would be here when he hadn’t even known where he was going? He doesn’t understand why she came out to find him in the first place. She’s probably very busy at the SSR--why would she waste her time with him?

 

He doesn’t hide anything from her as he looks at her head-on. He’s sure he looks like hell: eyes red and puffy, his demeanor withdrawn and introspective as he sits loose-limbed in his chair. He can’t find it in himself to care.

 

She’s dressed in a brown coat, looking elegant and colorful in comparison to the black grittiness around them. Just as the English are known for their stiff upper lip, Peggy’s standing straight and tall: red lipstick applied, balanced in her heels, and dark hair perfectly coiffed. The only thing to belie her strong demeanor is the sadness in her brown eyes she allows him to see.

 

He looks away.

 

He hears her approach him slowly, aware of how mindful she is of where she steps as though she doesn’t want to disturb the destruction. Steve just picks up the bottle of liquor beside him and pours himself another useless drink.

 

He sniffles once before speaking. “Doctor Erskine said that the serum wouldn’t just affect my muscles,” he says, and his voice sounds rough and hoarse even to his own ears. “It would affect my cells, create a protective system of regeneration and healing.” He sounds like he’s reciting a fact to her: detached and lifeless, as though the information doesn’t hold any value to him.

 

Which it doesn’t. Not anymore anyway.

 

“Which means, um. I can’t get drunk.” The silence rings out around them for a moment. “Did you know that?” he asks, turning his head to glance at her.

 

“Your metabolism burns four times faster than the average person,” she says, playing along. As she talks, she pulls a chair like his off the dusty ground and huffs with the effort. She sets it right at the table before sitting beside him. “He thought that could be one of the side effects.”

 

Steve nods, as though he understands, and he does--he just doesn’t _care_. It doesn’t matter anymore. The small talk doesn’t last, though; Steve knows she’s smart and will catch on to what he’s doing. It’s only a question of how long he can get away with it. As it turns out, not very long.

 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Peggy says, cutting right to the chase, her voice gentle.

 

Steve is getting so sick of hearing that.

 

“You read the report?” he asks, fiddling with the bottle.

 

“Yes.”

 

He scoffs as he sets it down. “Then you know that’s not true.”

 

“You did everything you could.” She says patiently.

 

Steve sits silently, turning Bucky’s last moments over again and again in his head; remembering the cold, and Bucky’s scream.

 

“Did you believe in your friend?” Peggy asks, bringing him back to the present.

 

He lifts his head and stares blankly at her; what a question to ask. But Peggy’s tone had changed. It isn’t patient or gentle anymore, but it’s like steel. It sounds more like her: determined and resilient.

 

“Did you respect him?” She stares at him head-on, her eyes challenging. He doesn’t deign that with a response.

 

“Then stop _blaming_ yourself,” she continues. “Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice.” She huffs and readjusts herself in her seat. “He damn well must have thought you were worth it.”

 

Steve isn’t worth it, is the thing. His life isn’t worth Bucky’s death. If given the option to exchange his life for Bucky’s, Steve wouldn’t hesitate. He’d choose Bucky over himself every single damn time.

 

Instead of saying so, or snorting in derision, he says instead, “I’m going after Schmidt.” His voice brooking no argument. “I’m not gonna stop until all of Hydra is dead or captured.” He thinks it gets all the things he wants to say across to Peggy loud and clear.

 

She lays a hand over his, making a lukewarm feeling spike through his Mark. “You won’t be alone,” she says with conviction.

 

It occurs to Steve that he was wrong before. The honest truth is that his friend, _and_ this woman, are the closest he’s ever had to soulmates. And he’s grateful to them both.

  
He turns his hand over and squeezes her fingers.

 

* * *

 

Zola turns on Schmidt almost a few hours later.

 

Steve sits and observes everyone at the table in the War Room as they talk about what’s to come: Philips informing the team what was told to him by Zola, and Howard reiterating the gravitation of how serious their mission is with science and facts. The Commandos ask questions, but Steve is silent as he listens.

 

He stares at the large map, so big that takes up the entire wall across from his seat, as the words are tossed around him. He glances down at the photographs scattered around the table that their intelligence agents were able to gather. Mostly he just watches the familiar faces of the people he cares about gathered around him, thoughts and plans swirling around in his head; each one he turns over to examine before letting them go. He focuses his attention back to his team: Howard Stark, the Colonel, and Agent Carter.

 

They’re all so determined, but even they see the impossibility of their situation ahead of them. They have no idea what comes next.

 

“So what’re we supposed to do?” asks Morita. “I mean, it’s not like we can just knock on the front door--”

 

“Why not?” Steve asks.

  
All eyes turn to him.

 

* * *

 

There’s no time to waste after the conference ends; the Commandos immediately exit the room, going to gear up and ship out. Steve’s just preparing to follow when Peggy stops him in his tracks.

 

“Agent Carter?” he asks. She says nothing, instead slipping an envelope into his hand.

 

He stares down at it, his brow furrowed in confusion. He raises his head to look at her. She gives him a pointed look, with comfort in her brown eyes, before she turns around to follow the rest of the team out.

 

Steve turns the envelope over in his hand, and his breath catches in his throat at the return address marked _Brooklyn Heights, Brooklyn, NY._ With shaking fingers, Steve opens the flap to the envelope, pulling out the letter and unfolding it. There on the page, was the familiar elegant handwriting of Bucky’s mother.

 

 _Dear Steve,_ it started, _I wrote hundreds and hundreds of letters to you in response to the latest letter you wrote. They varied from angered, to hurt, to downright murderous. The fact is Jim wouldn’t want me to send you any of them. Instead, I firmly believe he would want you to have this one._

 

Steve winces slightly; Winnie Barnes’ hot temper is notoriously famous in Brooklyn Heights. She has scolded many a kid _and_ adult in the neighborhood. He braces himself, for what is no doubt going to be the skinning of a century.

 

 _I do_ _not_ _want you to blame yourself for his death, Steven._

 

Steve’s heart stutters in his chest. It’s almost like Mrs. Barnes is right in front of him, scolding him: her dark hair pinned back, ice blue eyes blazing and pointing at him with a stern, white coated finger from the flour she was using to bake.

 

He reads on.

 

_Jim knew what he was risking when he signed up, and wasn’t under any illusions about what might happen to him. He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself for his death, Steve, just like he wouldn’t want me to, either._

 

Steve can almost hear the heavy challenging sigh she would take, which had always been a clear indication that he was about to receive the lecture of a lifetime. He holds his breath in anticipation.

 

_I won’t lie to you and say that this isn’t hard._

 

 _It is--it’s_ very _hard as a mother to lose a child, and I don’t want any mother to know this pain that I feel. I pray that they won’t. And I can only imagine how you must be taking this, if my pain is even a tenth to what you must be feeling._

 

 _Regardless, I would so_ love _to lay blame on someone’s feet for the death of my son--but the fact of the matter is, it’s this war’s fault that he’s gone. It’s the fault of those who dragged us into this fight and I am so sick of this and what it’s done to us. But no amount of tears, or resentment will bring him back. It’s poisonous and won’t help anyone, so don’t you dare put that on your head. You will never get anything done that way, and if I know you, Steven Grant Rogers, it’s that you will not take Jim’s death lying down._

 

Steve can’t help the snort at that; she knows him so well.

 

_For Jim’s sake don’t put that on your head. He deserves better than that, and so do you. For your sake and his, please don’t blame yourself. You are like a son to me, Steven, and you were always like a brother to Jim--I know you both would have followed each other to the end of the earth and back, and it was no surprise to me when you immediately signed up into the fight after he was drafted._

 

_You be good to yourself, do you hear me, Steven Rogers? I know your instinct is to throw yourself into the fight, and to go in, fists raised. But you keep your head down, and you get through this war in one piece, and come back to us safe and sound._

 

_I can’t bear to lose another son, and won’t forgive you if you get yourself into something you can’t get yourself out of._

 

_We’ll be praying for your return; don’t you dare disappoint us._

 

_Be Safe,_

_Winnie_

  
It takes so much effort for Steve to hold back his tears. He folds the letter carefully, and places it into a pocket on the hip of his Captain America uniform, straightens his back and walks out of the War Room, after the Commandos.

 

* * *

 

Steve catches the shield thrown to him and runs down the corridors of the Hydra base, chasing after Schmidt.

 

Adrenaline spikes through his veins as he runs past Allied soldiers and members of Hydra alike; he’s hyper-aware of the fighting going on around him, but it’s nothing except flashes of movement in the periphery of his eyes. He doesn’t stop for breath unless he’s forced to, and it’s in those moments that he’s able to really see the soldiers that are turned into literal dust around him. He’s almost hit a few times, but it’s thanks to Howard’s shield that he’s been able to deflect the shots fired at and around him.

 

He keeps running.

 

At each blinding blue light that flashes and every whine of a Hydra weapon that’s starting up, his stomach lurches. He hopes that the Commandos will be safe, that Howard and Peggy and even Colonel Philips won’t be taken out by a blue blast of light, and that every acquaintance he was forced to make while at Fort Lehigh will make it out okay.

 

He hopes he’ll see them all on the other side of this fight, unscathed and still standing.

  
Steve’s always had trouble imagining heaven, despite the sermons and depictions of cloud-wreathed angels he’s seen over the years. He doesn’t have any doubts about this, though; hell is on earth, it’s in the trenches, and it’s all around him.

 

* * *

 

The sunset is beautiful over the Atlantic, and Steve can’t help but take a moment to admire the swirls of orange and pink that streak across the sky. Even the icy wind blowing into the _Valkyrie_ from the broken glass of the plane’s windshield is lovely to Steve.

 

“Not my future,” he had told Schmidt. Looking down at the busted control console and the sunset ahead, Steve’s insides feel as though they’re beginning to freeze at the inevitable outcome that lies in front of him. He won’t _have_ a future.

 

He does the one thing he can think of: he radios in. He panics for a minute, thinking that the radio is broken and that he really would be alone in this moment, where companionship matters most. Thankfully, it still works, and he manages to get the frequency right, calling out to his team for help. Relief floods him when he recognizes the voice on the other line as Morita answering his call.

 

“Steve is that you, are you alright?” He hears Peggy’s dulcet voice interrupting Morita mid-sentence.

 

“Peggy!” Steve exclaims in surprise. “Peggy, Schmidt’s dead!”

 

“What about the plane?” He can barely make out her British accent; it sounds so tinny on the speakers of the radio.

 

He pauses, wondering quickly what he can say. “That’s a little tougher to explain,” is what he settles with. Suddenly Steve remembers the letter at his hip. “I need you to do me a favor, Peggy,” he says urgently.

 

“Anything,” she replies instantly.

 

“I need you to contact Winifred Barnes--Bucky’s mother,” Steve clarifies. “Please tell her I said thanks for the letter--”

 

“Steve Rogers, you are treating me like your personal secretary,” she huffs. “You can thank her yourself--”

 

“I’m not going to be able to,” he interrupts, his voice desperate for her to listen as he squints into the sunset. “If I don’t get this plane into the water, a lot of people are going to die.”

 

There’s a small noise on the other line that sounds like a labored breath.

 

He exhales softly. “Peggy,” he says, gently. “This is my choice.”

 

There’s a heavy silence; the gravity of the situation pushing down heavily, almost like having an elephant sitting on their lungs. The radio crackles with static, but it’s another moment of quiet before either of his friends speak.

 

“Mrs. Winifred Barnes?” Peggy’s voice croaks.

 

“Of Brooklyn Heights, New York,” Steve confirms, a small smile tugging on his lips. “And tell her I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not…”

 

 _‘Coming home’_ almost leaves his lips before the words get stuck in his throat. He huffs out a frustrated breath, and shakes his head.

 

“I’m just sorry.”

 

“I will personally see to it that she gets your message, Steve,” Peggy vows soberly, her voice as resilient as ever. “What else can I do?” she asks.

 

He breathes out a sigh of relief. “Stay on the line?” he asks, begs. “Please?” He’s proud that his voice doesn’t even crack.

 

“Of course.”

 

Steve reaches into his pocket, releasing the controls for a moment to pull out his compass. He opens it and sets it on one of the many meters of the plane’s dashboard. Peggy’s dark eyes and knowing smirk look back at him, and somehow it’s easier. They fall quiet for a few moments; Steve admiring the view of the sky as he allows Peggy the time to collect herself. The plane glides lazily despite the speed, and he watches as the wings’ tips cut through the puffy clouds.

 

He wishes he’d been able to learn how to fly.

 

“You know I knew this would be a long shot, Pegs,” he admits to her. He lets out a shaky laugh as he does. “Just like I knew I wasn’t supposed to get a soulmate.”

 

“Don’t you dare say that,” she growls, her voice cutting like steel. “If anyone deserves a soulmate, Steve Rogers, _it’s you.”_

 

“It’s okay, Peggy!” Steve quickly says, and it’s laughable. But he’s glad he’s spending his last moments reassuring her. “I’m glad. I really am.” He releases a soft breath. “I’m glad you’re not my soulmate.”

 

His eyes flick to the picture in his compass. Black ones stare back at him, and he laments that the grainy newspaper-printed photograph doesn’t do those beautiful honey brown pools any justice.

 

“I wouldn’t,” he tries before the words get tangled up. Then he tries again. “You don’t deserve to get a gray Mark because of me.”

 

“Steven Rogers, you _are_ a bloody idiot,” Peggy immediately says, surprising him. “I’m still your _friend,_ Steve,” her voice cracking on the word. “Losing you isn’t going to be like losing a ruddy hair pin. You are _irreplaceable_ , Steve, and losing you will still matter to me regardless of a Mark.”

 

She takes a deep breath, and Steve waits. The beat of silence stretches, and Steve wonders if the connection was lost.

 

“Peggy?” he asks, his heart nearly sinking.

 

He’s reaching for the switches of the radio when her voice comes back in. She speaks and there are tears laced in her voice.

 

“I love you,” she admits softly. She sounds so small and so very far away to him. “I don’t need a Mark to tell me so.”

 

Steve’s heart aches in his chest. After his and Bucky’s conversation, he had allowed himself to imagine a life with her. It would have been nice. Maybe not the stuff of epics, but nice regardless. He wonders idly if they would have made it.

 

It doesn’t matter now.

 

“I’m sorry, Peggy,” he whispers regretfully.

 

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she says sternly, but there are still traces of heartbreak in her voice. “I wouldn’t trade the time we had for the war. Now, no more tears, hm? You’ll make my mascara run.” She lets out a wet chuckle.

 

There is pain in her voice, and Steve wishes more than anything he could be by her side and comfort her. But he has a job to do.

 

Steve gives the radio a curt nod. But as he pushes with all his strength against the controller, holding it as tightly as he can, he thinks again about his soulmate. He honest to God _does_ love Peggy. Not exactly like a soulmate, but he does love her, and he feels like it was close enough to matter.

 

But thinking about the future he could have had with this wonderful woman only brings him back around to his soulmate, the soulmate that had never come. All his life, he’d thought of soulmates as the final puzzle piece that completes a person, when maybe that just isn’t the case. He had thought that soulmates were like a pair of trousers that were tailor-made to fit someone, but when he thinks about it now, that isn’t ever what he’s wanted out of true love.

 

He has never wanted a bland, perfect person as a soulmate. Steve isn’t perfect, so how could he expect his soulmate to be? Maybe the soulmate he has won’t be what he wants, but what he _needs_. Maybe that’s even better than perfect.

 

Bucky hadn’t liked the concept of soulmates to begin with; he never understood why the Mark taken so seriously in the first place, or why it should dictate a person’s happiness. In a way, Peggy shares the same sentiment. It’s as she’d said: Marks aren’t like fairy godmothers, they can’t be relied on to solve anything.

 

For Steve, it’s not about having a Perfect Person Meant For Him to spend his life with, but a partner. Someone who will always be in his corner; have his back and support him through thick and thin. Someone who won’t flounder at the sight of him because he’s Captain America, nor flinch at being around danger all the time--because Steve’s life _is_ dangerous, and he _needs_ someone who understands _why_ he has to keep picking up the shield and charge ahead no matter how many times he’s been knocked down.

 

Was dangerous.

 

Will have _been_ dangerous.

 

The irony, of course, of having a revelation about what a soulmate means, is having said revelation at the moment of one’s inescapable death. Despite the situation, it makes Steve laugh: the timing could have been much better.

 

The plane descends quickly into a nosedive, the wind whistling past Steve’s ears as he hurdles towards the water. He’s falling so fast that the momentum is making tears well up in his eyes. At least that’s what he tells himself. Steve can’t help but glance at his red gloved wrist; imagining a beautiful swatch of color underneath. He would always rely on the color palette in his head to dictate his Mark’s color, and any situation he found himself in, he’d pick a different color.

 

This time, a bright, brilliant blue is what he imagines his Mark to be.

 

His grip on the controller never wavers. He wonders at his soulmate’s future. At the future they’ll have without him.

 

_“ ‘Some people won’t have a chance to meet their soulmate in this lifetime.’ ”_

 

Steve’s breath catches in his throat at the sudden memory of his mother. He closes his eyes tightly, the tears still flowing. Of _course_ the story of Joanna and the Mark would be what his brain decides to focus on in his time of trouble. He almost laughs.

 

_He feels warm, plastered against his Ma’s side. She brushes the hair from his eyes gently; her blue eyes loving as she stares down at him. “ ‘And when that happens, God puts them in a special place for us until we die.’ ”_

 

Doubt overtakes him, and he wants to scoff at the absurdity. It can’t possibly be true, that there was even such a thing as soulmates. But just as he finishes the traitorous thought, Johnson’s voice cuts through as he whispers _“That bleeding soulmate story is true.”_

 

The sunset has been ripped from Steve’s vision as the snowbank approaches fast. There’s nothing but unforgiving white in front of him. As the icy air whips around him, filling the inside of the plane with bitter frostiness, a small flame of hope warms his insides. He hopes his soulmate will forgive him for leaving early.

 

Hopefully he’ll be able to explain why one day.

 

_“ ‘Once we die, we go to the happiest place we’ve ever been in our lives, and there they’ll be: waiting for us.’ ”_

  
_I’m sorry._  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so _so_ sorry.  
>  If it helps, Tony's up next.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Alone Together" from Fall Out Boy.


End file.
